A collection of inane nonsense (ranging from Error being reincarnated as Palette to Dust finding a new love for the color pink) circling around the many AUs and Multiverses of the Undertale world. Some stories will be connected; Others will be rando...
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(Warning: This chapter contains mild swearing.)
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Killer groaned in boredom.
A random show played on the widescreen TV in front of him, acting as pointless white noise in the background while his right hand's phalanges aimlessly picked at a loose thread on the sofa's armrest.
Beside him, occupying the opposite side of the furnishing, laid Cross. The monochrome warrior donned an equally bored expression and the posture to match: eyelights blankly gazing toward the television, teeth pulled into a disinterested frown, and bones slumped awkwardly against the backrest with his legs sticking out.
They had been like this for the past three hours.
Stuck.
With nothing to do- no souls to torture, no unsuspecting monsters (Ink, Blue, and Dream) to prank, no board games to play (Nightmare had confiscated them after a game night gone wrong), and absolutely no interesting shows playing on TV.
The target-souled murderer felt a spark of envy for his fellow "bad guys."
At least, the ones not currently present.
Nightmare went on a solo raid. Or to secretly market the defamatory, fiction-esque books about Dream he often spent his "free time" writing- i.e., the fabled "paperwork" their negativity-laden boss seemed perpetually busy completing.
Horror vanished off to wherever probably to lurk in a vast cornfield and make goo-goo eyes at that farmer Sans who foolishly gave him a chocolate chip cookie as a peace offering one time.
Jokes on that poor sap. Once someone fed the broken-skulled Sans, it was nigh impossible to get rid of him.
Killer would know. After all, once upon a time, he graciously shared half a dusty, smushed cinnamon bun with Horror and ended up being stalked by him for the better part of three weeks.
At least those three weeks were interesting, he thought, tilting his skull back to stare at the mansion's white popcorn ceiling.
A magical fizzle sounded a few agonizing minutes later then a dark portal sparked to life in the living room's entryway.
Cross instantly stood to attention, and Killer jumped out of his seat, resisting the urge to bounce on his heels in childish excitement; both watched the dimensional magic in anticipation.
The latter failing to stop a wide grin from growing on his face.
Finally! Maybe Nightmare will have something for us to do. At this point, I don't even care if it's a chore like trimming the garden or cleaning the dishes.
The negativity-laden guardian in question soon came walking out.
Seemingly uninjured.
However, Killer couldn't help but notice a peculiar... change on the other's skull. Nightmare's good eye socket, the left one containing a cyan eyelight drooped below the place it usually sat, which couldn't be something that was supposed to happen.
Well, not naturally.
"Uhhh... Boss, you okay there?" Killer tentatively asked.
The dark lord frowned, glancing toward him. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"
"There's just something on- with..." The target-souled skeleton failed to contain a grimace when the eye slowly drifted further down toward Nightmare's teeth. All the while, it remained trained perfectly on him as though nothing changed.
He hesitantly finished the sentence with a quiet and somewhat disgusted, "your face."
Nightmare took a hand, slowly wiping it across his skull. All the action served to do was smudge the eye socket over to the other side and tilt his mouth in a blatantly wrong, lopsided position, almost like it shifted a complete ninety degrees.
"Is that better?" He asked, raising a brow that somehow ended up beside his nasal cavity.
"Y-yeah..."
"Good. Now, if either of you needs me, I will be retiring to my chamber for the evening. Though I loathe to admit it, I feel a tad off today."
Oh, something is definitely off. And it's not just your eye socket anymore.
"Do try not to disturb me." Nightmare stated, giving both (bored) skeletons a pointed look.
In other words, "Don't need me and most certainly refrain from interrupting my rest, lest you wish for your skull to be divorced from your body."
Killer could take a hint.
Plus, he doubted tangoing with that mess would be worth the entertainment.
Or worry.
"I wonder what happened to make him look like that?" The target-souled murderer murmured as the negativity-laden guardian, obviously done conversing, turned to leave.
Cross shrugged, rather brazenly eyeing Nightmare's ass-sets. "I'd still give him a ten out of ten."
"I would expect nothing less from you."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
Instead of humoring the monochrome-clad warrior with an answer, he walked away.
There was a three-week-old clog in the second story's fourth bathroom calling his name.
